‘You don’t like this.’ he comments quietly. I shake my head, whimpering softly. He licks them gently, making the pleasure more intense. I moan, ...rching, making it better but increasing the pain. ‘Do you want me to take them off?’ I shake my head, working on not speaking. I’m afraid I’ll say something stupid. He smiles against my skin so I’ll know he’s pleased and moves lower. I feel something plastic touch my clit and flinch, but it’s just a vibrator. I drop the just and gasp when he turns it. This is another of my real stories.A little about me first: I am an Arab muslim guy living in Vancouver, Canada. I have a fantasy for Indian Hindu/Sikh girls, because for them a muslim cock is like a forbidden fruit.I met Harveer Kaur (name changed for privacy) on a dating site. She was married but unhappy. She told me she wanted to leave her husband and move on, thats why she was on that site. Soon she got separated from her hubby and started living by herself and we started dating. She was. We sat on top of a picnic table next to the fire behind his house. I hadn't seen Rod in about a year, so we talked for about an hour or so just catching up. As he talked, I would blow bubbles with my gum constantly, hoping to turn him on with my tongue. I made little moves like leaning back real far on the table, rubbing the outside of my thighs every once in a while. I noticed every time he got up to throw another log on the fire that he sat ever so closer each time. He kept asking if I was. It was all set and I was so excited for Matt. But on the day of his party I came home from work—I’m the best waitress in the world and all kinds of guys come in to sit at my tables and chat—and Matt looked miserable. He was frantically looking for another waitress and looked really stressed out.“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked him.“The agency was closed down so the stripper won’t be coming.”“Oh baby, I’m so sorry, but the stripper is the one that cleans the tables, stripping all the nasty stuff.
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